


No Sugar In My Coffee

by eclecticanarchist



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Fluff, M/M, cliche as heck so sue me, construction worker Frank
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-14 10:11:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14133903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eclecticanarchist/pseuds/eclecticanarchist
Summary: Sam and Dinah run a coffee shop in NYC, Sam has a crush one of their regulars (and who can blame him?)





	No Sugar In My Coffee

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TeaForNone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaForNone/gifts).



> I know nothing about New York lol
> 
> This is for TeaForNone who needed more Frank/Sam in existence :)

“You’re late,” Madani drawled, her forearms propped against the glass pastry case. Sam was already halfway across the shop, pulling his messenger bag off over his head and slinging it on one of the hooks in the back room. “I had to open on my own.” 

“I know, I know, I slept badly and traffic was hell,” he complained, tying on a black apron with the cafe’s logo across its chest. He spared a glance around at the sparse 6:20 am crowd and raised his eyebrows. “And unless there was an uncharacteristic 6:05 rush, it looks like you managed okay without me. It actually seems pretty quiet.”

“Do not jinx it, Stein,” Madani growled and he grinned, turning to empty the portafilter with a few gentle taps. As brilliant as she was, Dinah was not an extraordinary barisa. She never remembered to clear out the used ground until she had a new order coming in and didn’t have much patience for extravagant customer requests. If Sam was asked what he brought to the coffee shop that would be his reply: ‘I make sure the espresso machine is always ready to go AND I can actually use it.’ It was a small thing, but it was something he was better at than Madani and that was hard to come by. 

They’d worked alongside at Gaveh New York since they opened it three years ago. It was a big shift for both of them, going from being federal agents to independent business owners in what seemed like an instant. It wasn’t like they rushed into it. The contrary, actually, they’d talked about it for a while before committing. Discovering some underhanded deals orchestrated by their boss was one contributing factor, but Dinah taking a bullet to the skull on an op, even if it was just a graze, was definitely the real wake up call. It was a sign that they should follow their gut and get away from the politics and corruption rampant in the office while they could still do so in one piece. 

Business had been steadily increasing as they made a name for themselves and their shop in the neighborhood. Madani ran a tight ship, between her razor wit and remarkably keen business sense and Sam’s affable charm and mad barista skills, Gaveh was a popular spot to socialize, grab a bite, or study. And anyone who noticed the large percentage of people in suits and badges that frequented the shop didn’t remark on it. At least, those who had any sense didn’t.

One of their biggest struggles was finding a middle ground price range so that they could be competitive, inclusive, and more importantly, not broke. Despite their own business-model related qualms, a wide range of people came in. Older women from the neighborhood who came to chat with Madani in Farsi, or street vendors in need of a pick me up. Out of all of them, however, Sam’s favorite regular had to be Plaster Beard.

Okay, admittedly it wasn’t the most flattering nickname but the guy must work construction or something because he seemed to always have plaster dust in his beard! Or in his hair. Or catching in the folds of his henley, bunched over thickly muscled arms. Oh those arms. Sam dreamt about those arms, about them holding him, gripping his hips, trailing down his sides…

Sam had to shake himself out of his revery as the bell over the door rang and, well speak of the devil and he shall appear. It was Plaster Beard, sans plaster for once dressed in worn out jeans, combat boots, with another of those godforsaken henleys clinging to his pecs. Plaster Beard sauntered up to the counter craning his neck to read the menu board over the counter. He scratched at the back of his head, allowing the bottom of his shirt to ride up, showing off an impressive ridge of finely-chiseled muscle. Jesus, the man was like a walking goddamn crossfit ad. Sam gulped. Play it cool, Sam, play it cool. 

“Coffee,” he grunted, “black, no cream no sugar.”

“That is generally what black means,” Sam said out of reflex and could have kicked himself. “I mean, yes of course, anything else?” 

“No, thanks,” Plaster Beard was smiling. He was smiling at something Sam said and sure it was a small smile, more like a vague tilting of one half of his mouth than a real smile, but it was enough to make Sam flush as he poured the man’s coffee into a to go cup. 

“That’ll be, uh. It’ll be Two forty-nine,” Sam stammered, getting lost in the way Plaster Beard ran his hand through his hair, his dark eyes flicking to the side and thankfully missing Sam’s stare. It was kind of embarrassing really, this nice man just wanted his coffee and here was Sam ogling him while stumbling over his words like a idiot. The man tossed four dollars onto the counter.

“Keep the change,” he said, nodding in Sam’s general direction before turning and making his exit. Madani joined him at the counter, watching as Plaster Beard held the door open for a young mother with a stroller and two little ones in tow.

“Not much of a talker,” Madani commented idly, as soon as Plaster Beard was safely outside the shop. “But he has a nice ass.”

Yeah, Sam thought with a grimace, yeah he does.

 

\--//--

 

Plaster Beard’s appearances at the shop became more and more frequent, and for each time he came in, grunted his monosyllabic way through the ordering process Sam’s crush got worse. It wasn’t just that he had the whole ruggedly handsome manual laborer thing down to a T, or that he exuded an aura of mystery, or that he could probably bench press a car. He was was always polite. He humored Sam’s nervous small talk, and slowly, began to let things slip about himself.

Sam learned that Plaster Beard’s real first name was Frank, and that he played guitar, and that he only drank black coffee to go in the morning. He had served several tours overseas in the marine corps, and had two kids, Lisa and Frank Jr. and an ex-wife that wasn’t in the picture. Sometimes if he came in after work, would indulge in a cappuccino while sitting at a corner table, plowing through a series of thick paperbacks. 

“He enjoys classic literature,” Sam moaned over drinks with Madani after work one night. She rolls her eyes at him; Plaster Beard was a favorite topic for Tipsy Sam. “He was reading Moby Dick yesterday. For fun I don’t think I know anyone who has actually read Moby Dick for pleasure.”

“Oh my God Stein, just ask him out already!” Madani yelled in frustration, slamming her tumbler against the bartop with just slightly more force than necessary. Sam crumpled forward, face in his hands. 

“He’s a dog person, Dinahhh. He has a dog named Max who’s a rescue pet. What am I going to dooo Dinah? He’s a dog personnn.”

 

\--//--

 

In the end, Dinah is the one who forces his hand. He’s in back fetching more sugar packets to refill the dispenser when he hears the door chime. He thinks nothing of it - Dinah’s on register after all - until he hears the low tones of Plaster Beard, well Frank now, from the main room of the cafe. He and already has his wallet out to pay when Sam peeks his head around the door frame. Frank isn’t dressed for work this morning and his freshly-washed hair hung damp around his forehead. Of course, Frank looks up right then, catching Sam’s eyes and smirking.

That's when Sam Stein knew he was fucked. That smirk was going to be the death of him, he just knew it. 

Frank nodded towards him, took his coffee from the counter and left. Dinah turned, a self-satisfied expression on her face. She held up a napkin with a few lines of writing scrawled across it. She handed it to him, patting him on the shoulder as she brushed past him with a smug, “You can thank me later.”

Frank Castle was written in all caps above a phone number. Just then, Sam’s pocket buzzed in his back pocket. The number flashing on the screen matched the one on the napkin. The message read simply: ‘plaster beard? really?’ 

Sam couldn’t stop smiling for the rest of the day.


End file.
